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Who: Aunamee and Wyatt
What: A showdown
Where: Outside the Temple, near the flooded shore
When: Week 7
Warnings: Violence, death.
On the empty steps of the Temple, Aunamee spins and shows himself off to the cameras like a bride on her wedding day. The blood that matted his scalp is gone. The cuts and scabs are gone. The wound that tore through his right shoulder is now a shadow, less than a shadow, and as he turns, he flexes the muscles on his perfectly non-paralyzed hand.
He bathed in the healing fountain.
Naked, of course, because even as he crawled half-dead towards the water, the thought of sinking in wet clothes made him feel ill. He did not come to the water to heal himself, but rather as an unconscious mortal urge to get somewhere safe and dark before he died, like a dying cat hiding itself under its favorite couch.
For Aunamee, clean and safe are synonymous.
It was pure luck that he opened his mouth to take in the water as he floated. His wounds were erased as abruptly as an etch-a-sketch. When he raised his head out of the water, gasping in the air that now came more easily, he inhaled microscopic particles that took away his pain. He cringed as he redressed in his muddy, bloody clothes, but it was an automatic response. It was nothing.
Halfway through one of his spins, night falls entirely and a single spotlight bathes him in the light from the heavens. And he doesn't care. He is whole again. This is how the world is supposed to feel. Agony is oil and he is water. Sweet water.
What: A showdown
Where: Outside the Temple, near the flooded shore
When: Week 7
Warnings: Violence, death.
On the empty steps of the Temple, Aunamee spins and shows himself off to the cameras like a bride on her wedding day. The blood that matted his scalp is gone. The cuts and scabs are gone. The wound that tore through his right shoulder is now a shadow, less than a shadow, and as he turns, he flexes the muscles on his perfectly non-paralyzed hand.
He bathed in the healing fountain.
Naked, of course, because even as he crawled half-dead towards the water, the thought of sinking in wet clothes made him feel ill. He did not come to the water to heal himself, but rather as an unconscious mortal urge to get somewhere safe and dark before he died, like a dying cat hiding itself under its favorite couch.
For Aunamee, clean and safe are synonymous.
It was pure luck that he opened his mouth to take in the water as he floated. His wounds were erased as abruptly as an etch-a-sketch. When he raised his head out of the water, gasping in the air that now came more easily, he inhaled microscopic particles that took away his pain. He cringed as he redressed in his muddy, bloody clothes, but it was an automatic response. It was nothing.
Halfway through one of his spins, night falls entirely and a single spotlight bathes him in the light from the heavens. And he doesn't care. He is whole again. This is how the world is supposed to feel. Agony is oil and he is water. Sweet water.